


Neverland

by bubblebucky



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Empath, I Don't Even Know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 11:24:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17021781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblebucky/pseuds/bubblebucky
Summary: Wendy is an empath. She is HYDRA. She is the Ghost.She is not sure who this red-headed woman is, but she thinks she's seen her before.a fun lil OC fic :)





	Neverland

**Author's Note:**

> just some stuff i had floating around in my notes that i mashed all together into one frankenstein's monster of a fic

It began when Natasha recognized their newest targets. It began when she declared the man to be the Winter Soldier, nearly a myth, held responsible for over two dozen assassinations in the last fifty years. It began when she said that the other one, the young girl, was worse.

The room was silent as they waited for her to continue.

 "They call her the Ghost," Natasha said quietly. She was not avoiding their eyes, but her face was clearly shuttered and void of emotion, covered as well as any mask. "She--I met her in the Red Room."

* * *

The day comes where Wendy has enough.

She knows the sort of man Mr. Thompson is. She’s known since she was a little girl, watching her mother do her hair and put on a fresh dress just for Mr. Thompson to show up and pull her upstairs. But Wendy, maybe a little naively, never expects for him to move on.

She never expects to see him go after her sister.

Wendy thinks that the moment things came together in her mind is the moment she well and truly snapped. Seeing his eyes slide from her mother to her sister, licking his chapped lips, curling his terrible mouth into a grin—that’s what sends her over the edge. One moment, Wendy is sitting on their ratty old couch, hoping that he’d finish his visit soon, and the next she’s on her feet, nearly chest to chest with him, glowering.

Her mother and sister are wide-eyed behind her. Wendy’s mouth is a snarl.

“Don’t touch her,” she grits, and her family’s shock turns to fear at the same moment that Mr. Thompson lifts his eyebrows.

“You don’t tell me what to do, little missy,” he replies, and for all his words are casual, below the surface Wendy can feel his annoyance building like a wave. “Go back to your room and let the grown-ups talk.”

It’s an out, a free getaway, and she can feel her mother and sister’s desperation for her to take it. But Wendy has never been good at following directions.

She clenches her fists and says, “I’m not going anywhere.”

The surprise is so evident on his face that Wendy wouldn’t need to have her talents to see it. Somewhere, she feels a bit of satisfaction at the reaction, but more presently she can only barely resist fidgeting under his intense stare.

“I never realized how old you got, Wendy,” he drawls, and Wendy gets a flash of something-- _intrigued-smug-aroused_ \--that makes her stomach curl. “You look an awful lot like your mother.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, her mother pushes forward, grabbing Wendy, holding her against her chest as she says, “Please, no. She’s just a child. She’s only fifteen—"

Mr. Thompson’s eyes snap to her mother and he growls audibly, reaching forward and wrenching Wendy from her grasp. “If she’s old enough to back talk, she’s old enough to use that mouth for other things.”

 _Oh._ Wendy’s breath leaves her lungs. Immediately, she’s struggling to get away, because this isn’t the plan, she’s not—she _can’t_ —but her mother is right. She’s only fifteen. And Mr. Thompson is so much older and stronger, and he is forcing her towards the stairs while her mother and sister beg in the background.

Wendy isn’t under any false impressions. She knows other people can’t do the things she does—can’t feel and change other people’s emotions the way she can. But she just thought she was extra good at reading people. Her mother told her as much, when Wendy mentioned it. But what happens, she knows, is not something that happens just because she can read people.

Wendy is being wrangled up the stairs. Her heart is beating louder than anything else, her breath is coming so fast she thinks her lungs will give out, and her fear is like a wild animal in her chest, clawing and tearing and desperate to escape.

And Wendy, without really meaning to, lets it loose.

When Mr. Thompson lets her go, she doesn’t hesitate to rip herself away and put some distance between them. But then, he doesn’t pursue her. He doesn’t start to curse her mother out, or return to eying her sister. Instead, he falls to the ground, looking suddenly clammy. He grabs his chest. He turns to them with huge eyes, panic in both of them.

And then he dies.

They don’t realize what’s happening at first. Her mother calls out Mr. Thompson’s name hesitantly, then approaches him like she’s afraid that he’ll spring back into motion and grab her. Wendy knows better. Mr. Thompson—his corpse—is _empty_. It’s disconcerting, because one moment he was full of emotion, and now there’s nothing. She could be empathizing with a wooden stool, for all she got from him.

“He’s dead,” Wendy says hollowly. Her mother doesn’t disagree, just feels shakily for a pulse and sits back on her heels when she can’t find one. “I killed him.”

“No you didn’t!” her sister shouts, voice shrill. She turns to their mother. “Right, Mom? She didn’t kill him. He just— _died_ , right? Mom?”

Their mother is staring at Wendy. Her face is blank, but Wendy has never needed visual signs to know how someone is feeling, and now she wishes she never had this power. Not if it meant her mother would fear her. Not if it meant her mother is less terrified of the man who raped her for years than her own daughter.

Her sister sucks in a breath loudly, _panicked-confused-shocked_ , and she runs away without another look at Wendy or her mother or the dead man on their floor.

Wendy looks back to her mother. “I didn’t mean to,” she says. Her numbness keeps her voice steady. “I didn’t mean to, Mom.”

“I know,” her mother lies, forcing a smile on her face, terror bleeding through her voice and soaking Wendy to the bone. “It’ll be okay.”

And Wendy’s shock breaks like an eggshell, falling away to leave her raw and vulnerable and horrified. She starts to cry, and her mother can’t force herself to get close enough to comfort her.

When she hears her mother on the phone a day later, she knows it’s only a matter of time.

Her mother’s voice is teary and low. Wendy isn’t sure who she’s talking to, but the few minutes of one-sided conversation that she hears does well to convince her that she won’t be around much longer.

Honestly, Wendy can’t even complain. Ever since the police picked up the body, her sister has taken to silence. She doesn’t say a word, doesn’t look at anyone, doesn’t do anything beyond nodding when her mother asks her a question. Wendy can’t sense much in her beyond shock, but she’s afraid that any intervention would be unwelcome. Not to mention the way her mother hovers. More like scouts, actually. She rarely lets Wendy out of her sight, the same way one would keep an eye on a rabid dog. The suspicion that seeps around her makes Wendy’s skin crawl.

Leaving is the best thing she can do. Maybe whoever her mother called will be decent, give her a real bed in the cell she’s surely going to be locked up in. Maybe not. Either way, there’s no way to avoid the inevitable. As soon as she stopped Mr. Thompson’s heart with her mind, she sentenced herself to this fate. She earned this.

She carries those thoughts with her for two days, using them to brace herself for her future as she waits. On the first day of waiting, she quietly says goodbye to her sister; there’s no verbal response, but she knows that she’s been heard, if only for the spike of _something_ her sister emits.

On the second day, they come for her.

She doesn’t hear them until they knock on the door. Her mother greets them, _relieved-terrified-frantic_ to get Wendy out of the house as if she could explode at any moment.

“She’s upstairs, Agents,” she says, no introductions beyond the two men stating their titles. “And please, be careful.”

Wendy flinches at that, because she knows that her mother didn’t say that for her benefit. Already, her mother worries for the safety of men that she only just met over that of her daughter.

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t.

“Don’t worry, ma’am. We’re very good at our jobs,” a deep voice responds. All Wendy can garner from him is cool confidence, though his partner is anxious enough to make up for it.

“You don’t understand, she’s a killer—"

Her mother cuts herself off as Wendy comes into view at the top of the stairs. It’s all that Wendy can do to resist wincing, even as her mother’s fear slams into her chest.

Softly, Wendy says, “I’m ready to go.”

Her mother doesn’t move, too terrified to run, but the agents regard her carefully, hands resting gently on the guns at their hips.

“You’ll come willingly?” The calm one asks, eyebrows raised over green eyes.

Wendy nods, slowly making her way down the stairs, and stops just short of the two agents. “I just want to say goodbye to my mom.”

The anxious one is already shaking his head, obviously against the idea, saying, “No way. We’re supposed to secure her and take her back to base. Agent Portman, she’s dangerous—"

“ _McCreary_.” A soft wave of annoyance sloshes through the green-eyed man, this Agent Portman, and he nods to Wendy. “Don’t try anything.”

It’s selfish of her to do it when she knows her mother’s fear, but Wendy has never once claimed to be a martyr. She walks to her mother, who is trembling and terrified, kisses her wet cheek, and then rests a hand where her lips just were.

“It’s okay, Mom,” she says, trying her best to smile. “I know you’re afraid. I’m sorry. I love you so much.”

Her mother doesn’t move or say a thing, not even as Wendy is put in cuffs and led out the door by the agents.

* * *

After the battle, after the pair was subdued, it took the Avengers longer than expected to gather for a conversation.

 It is unquestionably because once they removed the mask of the Winter Soldier, Steve realized that it was, against all logic, his childhood friend who had died seventy years ago. It didn't seem particularly likely, but the pictures of them both side by side were proof enough. Besides, the girl who rescued Natalia eight years ago still looked seventeen. She'd believe anything.

 After they took a frustrating amount of time prying Steve away from the glass wall separating him from the Winter Soldier, they gathered in the common room--JARVIS' attentive eyes and ears focused on their guests locked away downstairs.

 Unsurprisingly, Tony was the first to talk. "Well, this has got to be one of the most awkward family reunions ever," he said, reclining on the couch. "If Loki were here, it's be even better. Oh, and why not someone Bruce knows, too--Hell, even Birdboy can pass an invite to a dead-friend-turned-assassin. I'll even call--"

 "Technically, she was an assassin before I knew her," Natasha said, offhand, and Tony threw up his hands.

 "You're right, that opens up our options much more, thank you."

 Natasha shrugged one shoulder, not able to bring herself to smile, because she was still a bit numb. She did manage a nod, though, and it seemed to do the job.

* * *

They sit Wendy in a room and cuff her hands to the table. There are armed guards on either side of her, guns poised and ready to take out the danger if needed, and there are a few reddish smears on the ground just barely visible to the direct left of her chair. It's all clearly meant to intimidate her. It works.

 After making her wait for a clearly calculated amount of time, a tall man with a bushy mustache saunters inside, casual as can be on the outside even if he's buzzing with _impatience-hope-doubt_ internally. She has to compliment his composure, if nothing else.

 He drops down into the chair opposite her and simply stares for awhile. Then, suddenly, he clears his throat--shockingly loud in the silence of the room--and asks, "So, you're Wendy?"

 Wendy licks her lips and nods.

 "I'm the Director of this outpost," he says. He leans forward incrementally. "I'm going to ask you some questions, and I need you to answer them honestly, alright?"

 She gives no response, but he also didn't seem to be waiting for one. With a gesture, a file is brought in, and he quickly pulls out a recent picture of Mr. Thompson. He lays it in front of her.

 "Do you recognize him?"

 She nods. Of course she does.

 "Did you kill him?"

 Wendy hesitates, eyes flickering up, and then says quietly, "Yes."

 The Director is practically humming with eagerness as he asks, "How did you kill him?"

 She wants to lie. She wants to say that she poisoned him or something, anything so that they send her to a normal prison. But he's got that big file in front of him, undoubtably full of proof and pictures and witnesses.

 She tells the truth. "I scared him, sir."

 "And how, exactly, did you do that?" he asks.

 "With my mind," she sighs. "I pushed my fear onto him. He was so old that it was enough to give him a heart attack."

 The Gondola WISH project. They were searching for psychics, and they found her--not a clairvoyant, not a seer, but an empath. It's good enough. They ship her out.

 In Russia, she does very little but sit in the bunker and watch interrogations. She can tell them if their prisoner is lying, if they're about to crack, how they feel. Sometimes, they have her calm them down or rile them up. It isn't hard.

 Then one day,she wakes up with her hard bunk at her back and gunshots in her ears.

 It's incredible, how quickly things happen after that. One moment she is blinking into consciousness and the next Agent Portman, the kind one with green eyes who followed her out to Russia, who kept her held together through all this, is dragging her outside, his fear mixing with hers, shooting and ducking and whisper-screaming "Get down! For God's sakes, Wendy, get do--"

 It's about then, when Agent Portman is pushing her down behind a bush, that blood sprays across her face in an all-wrong, oh-God-no sort of way, and already she can hear footsteps and shouted Russian drawing closer, _excitement-dread-terror_ blurring together in her brain. She looks to Agent Portman for some sort of direction, but he's got a gaping hole in his neck, and his gurgles fade to silence. His mind is empty, and she feels sick.

 Still, she almost wants to stay with him, to keep hiding with his dead- _-empty_ \--body in this bush despite already being found, just so she can pretend like he'll get up and shove her playfully into a wall again. He doesn't get up, though, and she forces herself to her feet.

 Her fleeing is much slower alone. She never really got to leave the house much, Agent Portman and the rest of the crew-- _the crew is still back there, they're screaming, they're terrified, oh please save us_ \--taking care of all of the outside business. But she runs anyway, heading towards the forest, because she can hear Agent Portman's loud voice in her head yelling, "Come on, Neverland, pick up your feet! They're coming!"

 She knows they are coming. She can feel them.

 So she runs, and she runs, and she runs. And eventually, she reaches a river.

 It doesn't look so wide, but it looks cold. Cold and dark and dangerous, glittering black in the moon's light, but colder still is the dread filling her down to her toes, because the Russians are just moments behind her, and their excitement curls thick and repulsive in the pit of her stomach. She wants to vomit. Instead, she jumps into the river.

 If it looked cold, it was much, _much_ colder. Even in spring and especially at midnight, these Russian winters were brutal, and within seconds the river is draining her fight away. Her head submerged just as the Russians burst into sight. She catches a glimpse of them through a layer of inky water, but darkness soon replaces anything and everything.

 She's drowning, yes, but the ripping and tearing and eventual peace is better than the horror stories of Russian winters and the ghosts they make.

Agent Portman's voice murmurs, "Come on, Neverland, don't give up now," and she stops choking.

A hand grasps her arm.

* * *

"They have to stay here," Natasha said, uncharacteristically urgent. They looked at her, and she resolutely did not whither under their stares. "She saved me. There would be a lot more red in my ledger if she didn't help me out. I made a promise, and I intend to keep it."

Steve was looking at her with determination and understanding, and he gave her a short nod.

* * *

"You don't really think your government cares about one little girl, do you?" the Russian asks, trailing his hands along her jaw and smiling when she winced without being able to pull away. He stops to look at her when she doesn't answer. "Oh, you didn't mean them. You were talking about your handsome American friend, Agent Portman. Well, let me break some news." He leans in close, breath warming her face. "He's dead."

He's lying. He had to be. But then--she saw him. Saw his blood spill over the ground, heard his last few gurgles, felt him go empty--she winced.The Russian man was filled with _proud-satisfied-angry_ at her reaction. The truth always hurt in a way that lies never could.

"There is no one coming for you, Wendy. You drowned in that river." He turns away, suddenly, and a metal crown is lowered over her head. "Let us see what is reborn."

The first time she sees the Winter Soldier, she's only two months into her reprogramming and still catching glimpses. She thinks that this dark-haired man should shove her into a wall and call her "Neverland." She doesn't know why she thinks this. She does not know this dark-haired man. She cannot refrain from staring at him.

The Winter Soldier must see someone in her, too--scrawny and pale, blonde and blue-eyed--and he is just as distracted. When their handlers move to pull the away, the Winter Soldier lashes out and throws his across the room. He doesn't struggle so much as go limp, though, when reinforcements crack down on him tenfold, sending him to his knees with a jolt of electricity, and the Ghost does not know why she panics.

She does not know why she yells, "Portman!"

She is sent for reprogramming. She does not remember meeting the Winter Soldier.

Removing the memories while keeping the emotions associated with them is a very delicate process. It's prone to mishaps and will inevitably break down, because an asset can only emotionally relive the most terror-inspiring moments so many times before she remembers what it is she's so afraid of.

And at that point, when she begins to ask questions she shouldn't have or call people names that she shouldn't remember, they take her back to the Chair and repeat the process again. Of course, the system is slightly rectified by the cryostasis chambers, which slow down both assets' metabolisms enough that healing after wipes is very much slowed down. Oftentimes even the Ghost is limited to a single complete wipe for each mission. 

The mission starts as each one always does--the assets are taken from cryo, and they take turns in the Chair ( _different settings for different assets_ , the directions read, _be careful with extensive scarring to the Ghost's amygdala, and do not damage the rest of the neocortex when wiping the Winter Soldier's anterolateral temporal lobe_ ). The words are spoken, the mission parameters are established. Then they suit up, tucking weapons in pockets and zippers and sheaths undetectable to the human eye. Both of them are maybe a little too fond of the knives, but it makes no difference on this mission.

_Kill the targets. Retrieve the package. No witnesses._

"The only way to order is through pain," a handler says, offhand, and the assets parrot it back to him like they've been programmed.

They station themselves at the top of an incline a few hundred yards from the road, and they settle in to wait.

* * *

Then, the far wall raised up, revealing a nondescript hallway and a man--blond, hearing aids, codename: Hawkeye. 

Immediately, she lunged forward, her orders screaming in her head, only to slam harshly into the clear window that she hadn't seen. Her nose didn't break when it cracks against the clear surface, but it did begin to bleed as she stumbled back, disconcerted. Her face ached something fierce, but she has had much, much worse, and this was nothing in comparison.

Hawkeye, for his part, looked shocked. The Ghost wasn't sure, of course, because that awful ringing in her head didn't let her feel anything beyond what she believed was her own desperation.

"Holy shit," Hawkeye said, eyes wide, throwing his hands up in what might have been a gesture of calming. "Calm down, dude. Jesus, fuck--don't fucking do that!"

The Ghost ignored him and continued to throw herself into the window. It was seemingly unbreakable, at least to her, but nonetheless she continued to ram her shoulder into it, fueled by the words screaming in her brain:

_Neutralize the Avengers._

She threw herself against the wall again, and Hawkeye called out, "Stark, lower the fucking wall!"

The wall lowered, and Hawkeye disappeared from view. The orders quiet as he did, and the Ghost halted her attempts to break through.

She panted heavily, blood running down her chin and dripping onto the white floor. The red on white was shocking.

* * *

They are to eliminate the target, retrieve the package. No witnesses, make it look like an accident. It is an easy job, one shot to the car's tires to send it off the road. The Winter Soldier goes through all the motions as planned. He sets up the rifle and he readies his finger as the car containing the target drives down the road.

It is an easy job, but the Winter Soldier does not take the shot.

"Why didn't you take the shot?" she demands.

Then, the Ghost realizes that the Winter Soldier is feeling something-- _recognition_. It is a sign of his programming failing, she knows, but she also knows that she does not want the Winter Soldier to be wiped. To be wiped is to be hurt, and she does not want to see him hurt.

However, the Ghost does not want, just like the Winter Soldier does not feel, and he does not recognize targets, and he does not fail to take shots.

She takes the gun from him and twists it around. The car is far down the road, now, but not far enough to prevent a bullet from popping a tire and sending the whole vehicle spinning harshly into a tree. The entire front half of the car is crushed, and however unlikely it is for anyone to have survived, they must confirm the mission's completion. It is in the orders.

The Winter Soldier stares at the wreckage blankly, something like grief pulsing off him weakly, and he finally answers her question. "I knew him."

The Ghost frowns. "No, you didn't."

A twinge of annoyance. "Yes, I did."

She shakes her head, glaring at him sharply, saying, "You did not know him. Your programming is failing, Soldier."

He nods, and a bit of _anxiety-confusion-fear_ leaks off him. She soothes it with a thought, as instinctually as she can clean a gun. The Ghost takes a step down the mountain, and waits until she knows he will follow before making her way all the way down.

The car is still smoking when they arrive at it. The woman in the passenger seat is dead already, her brain leaking out of her bludgeoned head. The man, however, still lives, groaning and failing to escape his seat. His legs are crushed beneath the console. The Ghost feels no pity. This is a mission. They must complete the mission.

But the Winter Soldier is staring at the target like he's a phantom. Her counterpart has gone pale, paler than usual, and a fine tremble has started in his hands. He is compromised. His programming is failing.

The target has opened his eyes, though one is swollen nearly shut, wet with blood from a gash on his forehead. He isn't quite lucid. That is obvious from the way he stares past her to the Winter Soldier and slurs, _shocked-hopeful-terrified_ , "Sergeant Barnes--"

She snaps his neck, and the Winter Soldier flinches at the noise.

"Retrieve the package," she says, but her voice is gentler than she means for it to be.

The Winter Soldier opens the trunk and retrieves a suitcase, and the Ghost believes that they will be able to get the mission back on track. But then he stops, fingers flexing on the briefcase.

The Ghost can feel doubt building up in his mind, bubbling up like blood from a broken scab. She could banish it right now, but she hesitates. She doesn't know why.

"The target," he says, and furrows his eyebrows. "I knew him."

The recognition he feels is not a lie. It was reflected in the man she killed. She replies, "Maybe."

He nods, accepting the answer for what it was. It doesn't matter if he knew the target. Still, he looks at the briefcase in his metal palm, looks at the corpse cooling in the crash, and asks her, "Will you help me?"

She does not know the Winter Soldier, the same way she has never been on a mission before. She can feel in her gut everything's familiarity, but she has no memory to back the feeling up. If the Ghost could want, she would want to remember. The Winter Soldier is beginning to. It would be cruel to deprive him of something so important, if Ghosts could be cruel.

She nods. "Anything."

The Winter Soldier does not smile, but she can feel his relief anyway. It is foreign and comforting.

"I knew him," he says again, like that was the base he was building on. "We cannot retrieve this package."

The Ghost understands immediately and agrees shortly after. "The package was not in the vehicle."

"The package was not in the vehicle," the Winter Soldier parrots, then opens the briefcase. Inside are five bright blue IV packs. The Winter Soldier scoops them out, slices them open with a knife, and pours their contents in the dirt. He buries the plastic containers a few feet away. It is a crude and unreliable way to dispose of evidence, but the Ghost supposes that it will have to do. She nods when he finishes.

"Extraction point ten miles to the south, one hour."

She makes a move to start heading there, but the Winter Soldier does not follow. There is something hesitant in his mind.

She says, "Soldier?"

He blinks, and the hesitation is gone. "Confirmed. Let's go."

* * *

The next time the wall raised, there was a tall, thin woman with strawberry blonde hair waiting outside the window. She had a calm smile on her face that didn't even falter when she saw the smear of blood on the window, or the blood that still stained the Ghost's face. In fact, she seemed completely unconcerned by the Ghost's entire presence.

The Ghost didn't know how to respond, so she just watched her.

"Hello, I'm Pepper Potts," she said, as if she's talking to a businessman, not a known assassin. "How are you feeling?"

The Ghost blinked. It's an odd question, and not one that she'd heard before. She hesitated, wondering how this could be used against her, before shaking her head. Pepper seemed to accept that as a reasonable answer.

"The walls of the room you're in are filled with sensors that send waves of the same frequency of the ones you use to alter people's emotions. That's why you aren't able to feel me, if you were wondering."

The Ghost had been, but she would never have said as much aloud. She continued to stare at Pepper, though the woman didn't seem even vaguely intimidated. She went on to begin to talk more about the room the Ghost is being kept in--all valuable information that she should have been noting in order to plan her escape--however she found herself asking something that she shouldn't have.

"Where am I?"

Pepper paused, looking caught off guard for the first time. She was quiet for a moment, head tilted to the side like she was listening to someone out of view, and then she replied, "You're in New York City, in Stark Tower. You were captured and brought here after attempting to kill the Avengers."

 _Neutralize the Avengers_ , the voice inside her head demanded, but it was far quieter this time. Besides, the Ghost understood that she has been compromised. She failed the mission. The only appropriate course of action was to regroup and retreat. But she couldn't regroup, because she was stuck in this cell and she didn't know--

"Where is the Winter Soldier?"

Pepper's smile wavered a little. "Why do you want to know?"

The Ghost squeezed her eyes shut. Why did she want to know? She wasn't supposed to want. She was the Ghost. And Ghosts don't want, they don't need, they only exploit and destroy.

And yet, "Where is he?"

Pepper shook her head. "I can't tell you."

The Ghost snarled silently. "I can't _feel_ him."

Pepper's eyebrows came together. "I told you, there are sensors--"

"Give him _back_." The Ghost interrupted. She felt like she was spiraling out of control. "I need him back. If he doesn't come back, they'll--" she cut herself off with a growl, barely resisting the urge to once again attack the window keeping her trapped.

Pepper was watching her quietly. "What will they do?"

 _Wipe him_ , the Ghost thought. _Start over. Reprogram him again and again until he doesn't remember his own name. Until he doesn't remember he's--_

"James," The Ghost breathed and collapsed.

* * *

She loves her.

She comes to this realization after supper one night, both of them sitting in the moderate dark of the Ghost's chamber, deliberating plans, discussing.

Natalia opens her mouth to catch the Ghost's attention and realizes that she doesn't, in fact, have a name for her other than the Ghost, and that simply will not do.

Natalia asks, "What is your name?"

The Ghost replies immediately, "Codename: Ghost."

Natalia shakes her head, frowning. She pushes herself up on her elbows. "No, that is the name they gave you. What is the name you had before?"

The Ghost is quiet at that. Her face contorts, confusion easy to read in her furrowed eyebrows and slight frown, visible only because of how close they sit together.

"My name," she murmurs, staring off. "My name is Wendy, like Neverland."

"That is a Westerner's name," Natalia comments, delicate eyebrows furrowing. The Ghost nods. "You are no Westerner."

The Ghost's--no, Wendy's--eyes lose their faraway look at once, and she says, "Of course not. I belong to HYDRA, stationed currently in the Red Room, in Russia."

"No," Natalia says sharply, fists clenching briefly. "We will not belong to anyone, soon."

Wendy leans forward and pulls on a lock of red hair gently, giving her a faint, lazy smile, as if they were lounging out on a sunny beach instead of huddled together in a dark cell. "You've never belonged to anyone but yourself, Nat."

"The same goes for you," she replies seriously, turning deep green eyes on her. "You are yours."

Wendy hums, her shoulders relaxing for the first time in years, and turns to stare into the ceiling. She looks remarkably young like this, face tilted up to the sky, shadow masking the trauma that's accumulated on her face over the years. Natalia doesn't know truly how old Wendy is, only that she is physically the equivalent of a seventeen year old. It's so young, really, the both of them are. And though Natalia is the best of the Widows and Wendy is the Ghost, she doesn't know how they plan to escape from the Red Room. They created Natalia, and surely they will have no trouble destroying her if needed.

"I can feel your anxiety," Wendy whispers, voice light. She doesn't even turn her head as she offers, "I can make it go away, if you'd like. For a little while."

"I can handle it," Natalia replies shortly. The idea that Wendy thinks that she's gone soft--

She can practically hear the eyeroll in Wendy's next words. "Sure, you _can_. But you don't have to."

It's then that Natalia remembers who she's talking to. This is Wendy. There is no accusation, no hidden agendas. She is Natalia's friend, the one who returned to her even when she didn't remember her own name.

Like a hammer breaking through a wall, Natalia realizes that she loves her.

Wendy inhales sharply beside her, and suddenly Natasha is terrified. She is more vulnerable than ever. This girl has Natasha in the palm of her hand, and now she just waits for her to crush her.

Instead, Wendy reaches over tentatively, and presses her fingers into Natasha's tense shoulder, and--oh.

"Me too," Wendy murmurs, and Natasha can feel it, like a warm hand reaching inside of her and squeezing her heart. It shouldn't feel good, but it does. She shouldn't love her, but she does.

Natasha nods. There isn't anything more she can really do. Wendy withdraws her hand back to her own lap, smiles softly at Natasha, and once again begins to plan.

"The washing room has unbarred windows..."

* * *

The red headed woman came to visit her again. This time, she simply stared at the Ghost for a bit, eyes calculating and startlingly green, so familiar and not at the same time that it was making the Ghost's fingers twitch.

Without any warning, she asked, "What is my name?"

The Ghost tilted her head. She didn't respond.

The woman gave no reaction, but her mouth tightened just a hair. The Ghost shrunk back a little, knowing she displeased whoever this person is, but the red headed woman moved no closer, and the cell wall stayed shut.

"What is _your_ name?"

"Codename: Ghost," she replied immediately.

The woman said, "No, that's the name they gave you." Her eyes were more intense now, like she was trying to make the Ghost understand what she's saying without saying it. "What is the name you had before?"

The Ghost blinked. Her hesitation was noticed by the woman, and she watched her expectantly now. And something--something was blooming in the Ghost's ribs. Something she recognized but did not know. The woman in front of her was younger, once, with the same green eyes staring at her in a concrete room, red hair curled around her face, and the Ghost had told her, she had said--

"Like Neverland." The words were unexpected, falling out of her mouth on their own accord.

The woman pulled the corners of her lips up into something that could be the beginnings of a smile. It was all a little overwhelming, because the Ghost-- _Wendy?_ \--doesn't even know where the response came from, much less why it pleased the woman.

"Do you know my name?" she asked again.

The Ghost or Wendy or Neverland, maybe, opened her mouth, felt her lips form around something familiar, then closed it.

This time, the woman left with a smile.

* * *

"You must go now!" Wendy shouts, spinning the knife in her hand expertly, jaw set.

Natalia shook her head. Her face was a perfect mask of marble, but beneath desperation and fear churned. "No, I'm not leaving you."

"You have to," Wendy said, and winced when despair spiked through Natalia. "I promise, I will come if I can. But there is someone I cannot leave behind. I must stay with him."

Natalia, for the first time since Wendy knew her, breaks her emotionless mask and lets her eyes fill up with tears. Her face contorts with grief, but she nods, pulling herself out the window. The shouting grows closer.

"I'll find you," Natalia promised. "I swear, I will find you, and I will save you. You and him."

Wendy takes a dangerous moment to look at her and smile. She musters up all the _love-courage-affection-love-love-love_ she can and pushes it to Natalia. "I know you will. Now go."

The first of the soldiers enters the room only to die quickly as Wendy slits his throat. She risks another glance, but Natalia had disappeared.

Wendy smiles grimly and fights until she can't.

The Ghost is wiped, reprogrammed, and put into cryostasis for a year. No further contact with the Red Room is recommended.

* * *

"You shouldn't come in here," Wendy said weakly. Her hands were clenching and unclenching by her sides, itching to follow the orders echoing in her head. "I'll have to kill you."

Natalia, brave and prideful, only shook her head, fingers still hovering over the keypad. "You won't kill me." She said it like she's sure, like she had complete faith in her.

It made Wendy--the Ghost--Wendy groan. "I _have_ to."

Natalia responded very seriously. "You don't have to do anything."

"Yes I do!" Wendy yelled, eyes going wide, and if the sensors weren't drowning out her powers then a wave of anger would have washed through the room. "It's not my choice! I belong to them. _I have to._ "

"You are yours, Wendy. Not theirs."

It was said with such sincerity that Wendy actually sobbed. She vaguely remembered having a conversation like that before; at least, she remembered those words. It has been so long since she has been anything other than an asset that she didn't know how to be anything else.

She croaked, desperately, "Please, don't come in."

Natalia looked at her. She couldn't feel how she felt but she could still see the _sad-disappointed-longing_ in her face, oozing into Wendy's pores like humid air, making her feel heavy with guilt. Natalia nodded, quickly, and stepped away from the cell.

Relief joined the slew of emotions raging in Wendy's gut, but so does hurt as Natalia walks away without another word.

* * *

_Neutralize the Avengers_. That is the mission. The Winter Soldier sits in the van across her and is ready. He feels nothing.

The Ghost, however, is nervous. She doesn't know why, but something about this mission is off. Something about the targets--did she know a Steve, once? No. There was never a _once_ to know anyone from. But--but--the name sounds familiar. Like she's heard it whispered, gasped out loud before.

And the woman. The Black Widow. Natasha Romanoff. The Ghost does not know why, but she does not think that's her name. It should be softer, smoother, like a ballerina raising a leg--a gun-- _Natalia_. That is better. Natasha Romanoff is no Westerner.

The van they ride in jolts, and the Ghost snaps back from her thoughts. The Winter Soldier tilts his head at her, just a hint of _????-????-concern_ beginning to well up inside him. The Ghost dismisses it from him with a thought, as she is supposed to.

 _Neutralize the Avengers_. That is the mission. The van stops, and they step out, walking in sync.

The Avengers are fighting a small army of robots. The Ghost does not know why, because that is irrelevant information. What is relevant is this: the Avengers are fighting a small army of robots. They will be distracted. Target: Thor is not with them, increasing odds of success by 204%.

The Winter Soldier and the Ghost see the Avengers. They have stopped the robots earlier than expected. They meet them on the road head-on.

 _Neutralize the Avengers_. That is the mission. The Winter Soldier draws his rifle from his back, and he takes aim at Target: Captain America aka Steven G. Rogers--the Winter Soldier never misses a shot--but he does not pull the trigger.

 _Neutralize the Avengers_. That is the mission. The Ghost prepares a wave of fear to debilitate them all for easier dispatch, but then Target: Black Window aka Natasha Romanoff catches her eye, and she is frozen.

It's all a jumble in her brain. A man with a metal arm nods at her. A woman sobs under her lips. A man with green eyes calls her "Neverland." A red-haired girl hands her a knife.

 _Neutralize the Avengers_. That is the mission.

The Winter Soldier and the Ghost are incapacitated and detained. Standby for further orders.


End file.
